


The Nest

by That_Damn_Dixon_Boy (dracogotgame)



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: AU, Fluff, Humour, M/M, Might be OOC, Shane Walsh Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 07:28:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9112714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracogotgame/pseuds/That_Damn_Dixon_Boy
Summary: It all started when Shane's shirt went missing...





	

**Author's Note:**

> I plead guilty to all the fanfic sins: OOC characters, gratuitous fluff and general silliness. Sorry, everyone. I just desperately needed some Sharyl fluff and since there's so little of it...I wrote it myself. I do hope you enjoy it at least a bit. Cheers!

“God fucking **damn it!”**

His frustrated growl bounces off the walls of the small cell, amplifying tenfold as it echoes down the length of the prison. Shane closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, which does fuck all to calm him down. Still, he reminds himself that he can’t keep losing it like this over every stupid, small thing. The group still looks at him like a ticking time-bomb just waiting to blow up in their faces. He definitely doesn’t need to give them more reason to tiptoe around him.

He crawls out from underneath the cot and scans the small cell again. It’s not here, he knows it’s not. He has precious little left in terms of belongings and if that stupid shirt _was_ here, he would have spotted it by now.

Of all the damn things to lose, he thinks with mounting frustration. There was a time— way before he ended up in this nightmare of a world— when clothes were the least of his worries. Now, they’re a damn luxury. He lost most of his shit when the farm was overrun. That ratty white shirt with a hole in one sleeve and mud splatters down the front is one of his last. He can’t afford to lose the damn thing. He’s not going on a run shirtless, that’s for damn sure.

In the end, he has to concede defeat.

If it’s not here, it must be in the laundry. With a sigh, he trudges off to look.

* * *

 

He roots about the clothes, making sure to keep the clean and dirty piles separate.

As he works, his mind starts to wander— back to the farm and that night, the night he and Rick had almost killed each other.

Shane had lost his mind that night, he knew that now. In the end, it had come down to a split second of luck. He’d lost his footing and Rick tackled him. The gun was lost somewhere in the skirmish, and thank fuck for it. If it hadn’t come down to bare fists, one of them would have killed the other. By the time they both got back on their feet, the farm was ablaze and crawling with the dead.

The only thing that mattered then was getting everyone out alive.

It was only after they found the prison, that he realised he wasn’t part of the group anymore. Nobody really knew what had happened up on that hill. Rick hadn’t said anything, as far as he knew, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to bring it up. But he saw it in their eyes, in their blank faces and knowing expressions…somehow they knew what he’d almost done, what he _would_ have done given half the chance.

And so, he’d been ousted. Exiled. He didn’t fight it— too occupied with self-loathing to care. Even he couldn’t deny that he deserved it.

Then it happened. Losing Lori and…and the baby. It nearly drove him mad all over again, but what it did to Rick…

Jesus.

He wouldn’t wish that kind of pain on his worst enemy— and hell if Rick had ever been that. He was still his brother and watching him break down, destroy himself…it was awful. But it was also the kick in the ass Shane desperately needed.

Rick was too far gone to reason with, too wound up in his grief and fury and loss. There was nothing to do but wait it out.

So he waited and watched and started to rebuild. Life didn’t stop just because Rick was losing it. People still needed to be fed and clothed. There was no leader anymore. They were lost, scared and unsure of themselves. If they carried on waiting for Rick to put himself back together, they would have starved.

He started going on runs by himself. Sometimes when he got lucky, there was food. Other times, supplies. He didn’t know if it made any difference to the group, he never stuck around to get thanks. It was just…something he had to do. So that people didn’t starve. It was his out, his way of escaping the four walls of his cell.

It turns out, he wasn’t the only one looking for escape.

Daryl.

He’s sifting through another pile of clothes, when the name comes to him. Shane stills for a second.

He knew that Daryl had been watching him. He was always there, half in the shadows. Blue eyes narrowed, hidden behind shaggy, brown hair. Tracking him, almost— like his damn rabbits. Shane let him. He wasn’t going to start a fight with the hunter— Daryl was no spring daisy, but the group sure as hell preferred him to Shane. Besides, the only thing he cared about was getting by. If Daryl wanted to stand around and wait for him to mess up, that was his business.

He was surprised when Daryl started hunting. They weren’t running low, not just yet. But Daryl was diligent. He left for days sometimes, but he always came back with a buck— or a few rabbits, at least. The fresh meat definitely helped. It was a relief to eat something that didn’t come out a can. Shane was definitely grateful, and he said so.

Daryl just side-eyed him and scoffed.

“Ain’t the only one who needs ta get out, Walsh.”

That, Shane realised, was the first time Daryl had let something personal slip in a conversation. He didn’t ask questions then. But he did start watching Daryl back, putting some things together in his head. The way Daryl still skirted the group like a wary stray. How resistant he was too assimilating or being a part of anything. The flinch and scowl when anyone got too close. How he slept out on the roof, as far away from the cells as he could.

_I ain't sleeping in no cage._

They were both outsiders, Shane realised. He’d only been one for a few months, and it was painful. Daryl had been one his whole life and it was the only way he knew how to be.

And now here they were. Thrown together and keeping shit from hitting the fan while avoiding the very people they were trying to keep safe.

When he said as much to Daryl, the man just scoffed and offered him a cigarette.

Daryl started going on runs with him and Shane started joining Daryl on hunts. The system worked. And for a while, Shane was...okay with how things were. He grew used to the silent presence, always two steps behind him, watching his back as he scavenged for cans and tools and blankets. He learned to walk quietly in the woods, guarding Daryl in near silence as he tracked prey. It worked. It worked well.

Then Rick came around.

Shane remembered being afraid. Afraid that everything would get messed up again. That Rick would go back to be being the de-facto leader, that he would get pushed to the side-lines. It all came back then— Lori, the baby, the exhausting power struggles that had torn them apart. He didn’t have the strength to do it again. It would destroy him this time, he knew it would.

That’s when he found strength in Daryl. Daryl, who refused to let him sit around feeling sorry for himself. Daryl made him keep going. Daryl forced him to keep going on runs, kept dragging him out on hunts, going for days and weeks at a time, and barking at Shane to _‘get off yer ass and keep looking Walsh, them tracks ain’t gonna follow themselves’_. He wouldn’t let up. That’s when Shane realised two things. One: Daryl Dixon was a stubborn son of a bitch. And two: Daryl Dixon was goddamn attractive when he was pissed off.

He yelled the first thing at Daryl several times during their many fights. He had enough of a sense of self-preservation to keep the second thing to himself.

Point is, thanks to Daryl and his stubborn refusal to let Shane be, the system stayed. And when Rick finally got back on his feet and took up the simple pleasure of tilling the land, everything fell in place. They all found a place, tenuous though it may be.

Farmer. Hunter. Runner.

Despite the thousand and one ways it could have gone wrong, the system still worked. Rick still side-eyed him and the few conversations they’d had were awkward and stilted, but there was an understanding between them now. So long as everyone did their jobs, things would be fine.

Except now, he realises as he comes back to the present, he can’t _do_ his job because his damned shirt is missing.

It’s not here. He’s gone through every pile of laundry in this damn prison, and the t-shirt is not here.

“I give up,” Shanes snaps at nobody in particular. “Stupid, fucking, piece of…”

“Shane?”

He whips around at once, wary and on guard. Beth is perched on the stairwell, watching him curiously. Shane relaxes a little. Out of the entire group, Beth’s the only one who’s been passing nice to him. She’s patched him up after a couple of runs went bad, and she never forgets to thank him for whatever he brings in.

He likes her, he decides, and he’s grateful it’s her watching him. He doesn’t even want to think about a chance meeting with Carol.

“Hi,” he offers carefully.

Beth tilts her head. “You lookin’ for something?”

Shane rubs the back of his head. “Shirt,” he gruffs. “Damn thing’s lost and I need to head out.”

“Did you check your cell?”

He knows she’s just trying to help but the question still irritates him. Of course he checked his cell, why else would he be sifting through the damn laundry?

“Ain’t there,” he tells her instead. “Ain’t here either.”

“Mm,” Beth offers helpfully. She shrugs her bird like shoulders. The next thing she says makes him wonder if he heard her right.

“Maybe Daryl has it.”

Shane stares at her. She smiles back.

“What?”

“Daryl,” Beth repeats, like the name is what’s confusing him. “He might have it.”

“What are you talking about?” Shane demands. “Why in the damn hell would Daryl have my shirt?”

Beth frowns. She looks confused. Good. They can be confused together.

“You…know Daryl swipes your stuff when you’re not lookin’, don’t you?” she asks him haltingly, carefully, in a tone that suggests that this was a pretty stupid thing to miss.

Shane gapes at her. “What? He swipes my…he doesn’t do that. Why would he…”

Beth just sighs, resigned and weary. “Shane, where’s your paring knife?”

 “My what?”

“The knife you use to open all the cans,” she explains patiently. “Where is it?”

Shane opens his mouth to argue, then closes it.

He does have a paring knife.

Where the hell is his paring knife?!

“And where’s your cap?”

Oh. This one’s easy. He knows this one.

“Lost that back at the farm,” he tells her with complete and utter confidence.

Beth looks like she’s starting to pity him. “No, you didn’t. You had it when we came to the prison. You had it for weeks until Daryl took it.”

Shane just stares at her. He’s having trouble believing any of this.

“And you put three shirts in the wash last week,” she goes on. “You only got one back. I’m guessin’ that’s the one you’re missin’ now?”

Shane’s head is starting to hurt. He thinks back to his cell and his laughably small number of possessions. Had that pile been bigger when he first got here?

He’s starting to think it was…

“Why the hell would Daryl take my shit?” he demands. “The hell does he need a paring knife for, he’s got his own.”

Not to mention, a huge fucking crossbow…

“Oh, I don’t think he needs any of it,” Beth replies.

“Then _why_ does he have it?”

“What’s with all the yelling?”

Carol strolls up to them, looking mildly interested. Shane’s too preoccupied with the resident kleptomaniac to care about the awkwardness between them. Oddly enough, Carol doesn’t seem too concerned with his agitated state. She just looks amused.

“Shane,” Beth says, effortlessly taking the lead, “has just noticed that Daryl takes his stuff when he’s not lookin’.”

Carol’s eyebrows disappear into her fringe. “Now?” she exclaims. “He’s been doing it for weeks.”

“Why didn’t anyone say something?” Shane snaps.

“We thought you knew,” Beth offers, looking honestly confused. “Where did you think all your stuff was goin’?”

“I didn’t…I haven’t…”

He sighs and gives up. This is just one of those things that’s never going to make sense to him.

“Is this why I only have three socks?” he demands instead.

Beth makes an odd noise and turns away quickly. Was that a giggle? He thinks it’s a giggle.

“I’m sure you can borrow one of Daryl’s shirts if you need one,” Carol replies with a straight face. “He’ll share with you.”

He might as well. Apparently, there’s a good chance half of them are his in the first place. He tries to think of a reason— any reason at all— why Daryl would steal his things. He comes up with a few. Daryl’s a kleptomaniac. Daryl’s fucking with him. Daryl hates him and wants him to suffer.

None of them make sense.

Daryl is not a kleptomaniac. The only thing he even pays attention to is his crossbow. And he doesn’t hate Shane either, at least not anymore. He thinks back to the last time they hung out after a run. Daryl had offered him a drag of the last cigarette and when Shane had accepted, he didn’t even scoot back. In fact, he leaned in until they were almost touching. Hell, if he didn’t know any better, he would say Daryl was…

Shane shook his head firmly. This was not the time. He had a crisis on hand.

“Does he take your stuff too?” he asks Carol.

If Daryl does have some kind of weird shoplifting quirk, then he wouldn’t be the only one affected, right?

“No,” Carol replies, her smile a little too serene. “Just yours.”

“He’s got it all in his nest,” Beth chimes in.

“His…” Shane flounders for a second. “Did you say ‘nest’?”

“Up on the roof,” Beth explains.

Shane has the strangest sense that they’re speaking a different language.

“Am I the only one,” he asks slowly, “who realises that the guy is not a racoon?”

Beth does giggle this time. “Come on, Shane,” she says, nudging him playfully. “Put it together already.”

He has no clue what he’s supposed to do here.

“We don’t know exactly why Daryl takes your stuff,” Carol mercifully explains, “but we can make an educated guess. You two are…close, right?”

He’s not sure where she’s going with this, but he has a feeling it’s going to cost him.

“You know he doesn’t let anyone up on the roof,” Beth adds. “That’s his safe spot. The place he feels comfortable enough to sleep. Even when it rains.”

He does know that. It pulls at his heartstrings for reasons he can’t explain…but he’ll think about that later. Still, the idea lingers, taking form at the back of his mind. Daryl nicking his stuff, stowing it away on the roof. In his…safe place. The place he took for his own. The place he sleeps, and calls home. Does…does having Shane’s stuff up there make him feel…better? Safer?

He thinks back to nights spent on watch, spent in comfortable silence. To hushed conversations and cigarette smoke billowing in the moonlight. To accidental touches and thin lips pulling in a small smirk…

“Just so you know,” Carol says, with a smile, “I don’t think you’re getting your stuff back.”

“Mm hm,” he murmurs distractedly. Somehow, he’s okay with that now. Because if Daryl needs it more…

He makes a decision, right then.

“I think I’ll give it a shot anyway.” He turns and starts to walk away, leaving them behind. “I’ll see you ladies around.”

“Good luck,” Carol calls after him.

“And thanks for making another run,” Beth adds. “We appreciate it.”

To think that all it took for people to warm up to him again, was Daryl stealing one of his shirts…

He grins and walks faster.

* * *

 

The door to the roof is locked, big surprise.

Shane knocks, sharp and loud.

The door opens the tiniest crack. One blue eye glares at him, narrowed and suspicious.

“The hell you want?”

Shane fights to keep a neutral expression.

“Hey man,” he starts. “Sorry to barge in, I know you don’t like anyone up here.”

“Damn right,” Daryl grunts. But he doesn’t slam the door either. He just scowls at Shane’s shoulder for a good ten seconds before repeating his question. “The hell you want, Walsh?”

Shane leans against the door frame— just enough to keep Daryl from closing it. “Mind if I come in?” he asks casually.

He’s certain he’s not imagining the way Daryl freezes, the way he suddenly ducks his head, looking guarded and just a touch guilty.

“As a matter ‘a fact, I do,” he snaps. “Ain’t no one comin’ in here, not even you.”

“Why?” Shane asks with a grin. “Got somethin’ to hide?”

Daryl bristles. “Ain’t playin’ twenty questions with ya neither,” he growls. “Go away.”

He starts to close the door, Shane blocks it with his shoulder easy enough. “Not until I get my shirt back.”

Daryl stiffens, his shoulders go back. “Ain't got it,” he denies, right off the bat.

Shane smirks. He won’t lie, this is fucking adorable.

“Daryl, I can see it,” he says, gesturing through the small crack. “It’s there on your mattress. Next to my cap. And my good knife. And…those are my sheets too.”

The thought of Daryl sleeping with _his_ shirt and tangled in _his_ sheets sends a tingle up his spine. It’s all he can do not to yank the door open and kiss the guy senseless.

But he has a feeling Daryl won’t appreciate that, not just yet. He’s just standing there, making odd noises in his throat— something between a growl and a snarl. It would be menacing in other circumstances, but the whole thing is just so ridiculous, all Shane can do is grin.

“Ain’t my fault you leave your shit lyin’ ‘round,” Daryl snaps after a moment’s deliberation. “Ain’t givin’ it back so fuck off.”

“I need my shirt, man,” Shane argues, doing all he can to keep from laughing. “Come on, just that one over there. You can keep the rest, I swear.”

He can’t believe he’s negotiating a hostage situation for his own shirt. He can’t believe how much he’s enjoying it either.

Daryl doesn’t seem convinced. He’s scowling now, and biting at his thumb— the way he always does when he’s uneasy.

“’s mine now,” he grumbles sullenly. “Can’t leave shit lyin’ ‘round anymore. Ain’t my fault ya can’t keep yer stuff in one place.” He huffs and glares at Shane again. “I found it, fair ‘n square.”

If Shane wasn’t such a nice guy, he would point out that stealing the sheets right off his bed is not ‘fair and square’.

But he’s good enough to keep pretending, especially if it will get him what he wants in the end.

“Fair enough,” he concedes. “So how ‘bout a trade instead?”

It’s enough to get Daryl’s attention. And Shane knows just what to offer. There’s one thing he has that Daryl hasn’t been able to steal yet…the one thing that’s more _him_ than any of that stuff in there.

Daryl will want this, he knows it.

“So?” he prods. “You in or not?”

Daryl tilts his head, sizing him up. “What’ve ya got?”

He’s had it since college. He’s never taken it off once— not when he left the Academy or joined the force or fell headfirst into the damn apocalypse. He honestly thought he would go to his grave with it. But right now, it’s the easiest thing in the world to undo the clasp and let the silver chain slip off his neck and into his hand. The silver **22** gleams in the sunlight as he holds it up. It still stings just a little to give it up, but…he thinks it’ll look a lot better on Daryl than it ever did on him.

“How ‘bout it?” he asks. His voice is low and gentle, like he’s trying to coax a small animal out of hiding. Almost the same thing, he thinks fondly. “Wanna trade?”

Daryl doesn’t say anything for a moment. But his eyes are fixed on the necklace, following the gentle sway of the pendant. His fingers twitch, against the door frame, eager and greedy. He’s fixated, and it’s just so damn endearing.

Shane draws back just a little. Daryl’s a hunter, after all, and he’s quick as a whip when he wants to be.

“Can have that?” Daryl asks softly. If he’s trying to sound bored or uninterested, he’s doing a shitty job of it.

Shane pushes back against the door just a fraction. It opens all the way. And suddenly, there’s nothing between him and Daryl.

“Yeah, you can have it,” he whispers. “C’mere.”

Daryl doesn’t move, but he doesn’t shy away either. It takes Shane two steps to close the distance between them. Daryl stares at him, blue eyes wide and unguarded. He looks young and vulnerable and all of a sudden, Shane wants nothing more than to protect him.

Even if the little shit stole all his stuff…

He’s careful as he slides the chain across the pale neck. His fingers sift through unkempt hair and he does the clasp up. The **22** rests in the hollow of Daryl’s throat. There’s something about the sight that’s just…pleasing to him.

 _Mine,_ he thinks. It feels right. Like something that’s been at the back of his mind all along, but he’s just found the right word.

It makes kissing Daryl a whole lot easier. His hands plant themselves on the boy’s narrow waist, pinning him against the wall. Daryl meets him willingly, eagerly, lips parted and tongue seeking. Shane cards a careful hand through his hair, just enough to tilt his head back. The **22** catches the sun again and shines against Daryl’s throat. Shane grins against the soft skin of his neck and closes his teeth in a gentle bite.

“You,” he murmurs, affection bleeding into his tone and touch, “are fuckin’ ridiculous, Dixon.”

“Shut up,” Daryl grumbles.

And somehow, Shane knows just what he means.

* * *

 

Later that night, Shane watched the stars shine bright in the sky. He’s lying on a lumpy mattress that was clearly meant for one, tangled in his stolen sheets and finally wearing the damn shirt that started this whole mess.

Daryl’s curled up next to him, sound asleep. The pendant rests loosely in his fist, his head is tucked into Shane’s shoulder.

All around them, lie the prizes of Daryl’s pilfering. Some of Shane's shirts are strategically strewn across the mattress. A sheathed knife, tucked under Daryl’s pillow. A cap, a couple jackets he once picked up on a run, even a wristband he’d found somewhere…

It’s all here, in Daryl’s…well, Beth had a point. ‘Nest’ is the only word for it.

Shane chuckles and presses a soft kiss to Daryl’s head. _Fucking ridiculous,_ he thinks fondly as he gazes down at the sleeping man.

At least he knew where all his stuff was now. Even if he had to give it up.

He doesn't mind though. After all, he got something way better in return.

And, he thinks as he tightens his grip on Daryl, he wouldn’t give it up for anything.


End file.
